HI EVERYONE...

Hi everyone.
I just wanted to thank you for all your kind thoughts and comments throughout what has been a truly harrowing time in my life. I can't even begin to express how much I appreciate each and every one of them. You have helped me to keep going when the odds were stacked so heavily against me, and I will appreciate that for the rest of my life. Thank you so, so, much.
I will be back to visit you all in the New Year when, hopefully, things will be a little easier. I have really missed you.

Wishing you all the very best of the Season's Greetings.
Have a Wonderful Time...and a Magical New year!

See you soon...xxx

TEDDY BEAR

When I found you in the attic you were threadbare.
On closer inspection it seemed you'd shrunk.

But the smile on your face remained as I remembered it -
like an old soldier's moustache.

Your breath smelled of dust and years of neglect
and one of your poor eyes had drooped.

Oh how I wanted to hug you,
to resume our exclusive closeness

that once soothed me in the dead of night
when vile nightmares tried to claim me

and left me feeling so alone and scared...
but I was afraid of what I'd feel.

Then I probed the archives of your heart
and there discovered a little blonde girl

lovingly cuddling her teddy bear, her Soul-Mate.
Suddenly, my world turned upside down

as, engulfed in aching nostalgia,
I clutched you close to my heart.

ADRIAN

In your eyes there is an emptiness, an absence
of years, of time to fulfil
all those expectations: a beloved eldest son
upon whom all family ambitions rested, confined now to a fading likeness
that hangs between trees in the garden of Castle Drogo.

Oh that beautiful face, cursed with such
grim aura of profound tragedy.
The pointlessness of it. I look at you
and sense no future, just a dismal premonition of things to come.
And I can bear to look no longer

in case I experience through you too vividly
that fateful day in Ypres, nineteen-seventeen, when
all around you the skulls rose up in blood-soaked mud
of blasted trenches...and that ghastly hush that followed
with the sudden horrific realisation

that your smile had expanded to encompass
Creation's endless entirety,
and you'd lost yourself somewhere in agony
between the brilliance of the poppies and explosive shell-fire.
And how the young Major wept inwardly then for his wife;

for the offspring he would never sire;
for his parents' and siblings' grief;
for the homeland he would never again see...
and for those who were left to gather up the pieces
and lay them to rest in Vlamertinghe New Military Cemetery...


In Memoriam,  Adrian Drewe.   1891 - 1917



Just a flying visit, guys...to send you my heart-felt thanks for all your kind messages of support. I can't begin to express how much they mean to me at a time like this. I will reply to each one as soon as I possibly can.
There have been many scares: the op was over, then he had a massive arterial bleed so had to be rushed back to theatre and opened up again.
He just began to come round from the anaesthetic, then his kidneys began to fail. They managed to rectify that, only for his breathing to deteriorate.
At the moment he is stable though, in intensive care.
So we are hoping and praying...

I am missing you all so much. As soon as I can I will visit you all, I promise.

The above post was written a month ago, for Remembrance Day.
I hope you like it...

And thank you again for all your support. You have all been so kind that it brings tears to my eyes.
Bless you all...

LUCIA

Inspired by "The Highgate Vampire"  by Sean Manchester.


I have a shadow
                   whose mane is LUCIA.
I acquired her
                   on a guided tour
                                          of Highgate Cemetery.
I heard her softly calling me
from deep within the catacombs
and felt
           compelled to follow
                                        the seductive syllables
that reverberated through my being.



It led me to a crumbling tomb
                                       that appalled me to the core.
So I gripped my pentacle
                                      and prayed to the Gods
while fervently crossing my chest:
dividing Earth from Air...
                                    Fire from Water...
                                                           and (hopefully) myself from LUCIA.
But..."That,"  she crooned,  "is a fallacy!"
as she followed me home that night.



Well I found myself watching her like a hawk,
never averting my eyes -
                                  not even for an instant.
For I knew then she and I were rivals
                                                       for my immortal Soul
and the blood that coursed through my veins.



But beneath blonde hair
                                   those saucer eyes
gradually subdued my will.
She whispered to me in my dreams
of things absurdly preposterous:
promising me eternal life,
                                     while the painful ecstasy
                                                                         of icy kisses
nightly drained my jugular.



And so today
                 I'm sorry to say
                                      LUCIA has finally won.
See how my fangs
                          have grown long and pointy
and I'm terrified of the Sun...



Happy Hallowe'en!!!



PS  My husband has been admitted to hospital to have his heart operation. I will keep in touch as often as I can...I just can't predict how often at the moment. Do hope you will bear with me through this difficult time.
Thank you so much for all your support and kind words. They are appreciated with all my heart.:)

Just felt the need to add a photo of us together...as we face an unknown future...

PUPATION

You bought me a red dress
a decade-and-a-half ago in the January sales.

In the bedroom behind white wardrobe doors,
it hangs like a sun-drying tomato.

New still in theory, it smells of the perfume
I wore when I tried it on - and years of various moth repellents.

On a hanger, suspended in the darkness,
red frills have come to accept the role of servants-in-waiting,

but unadjusted shoulder straps envy their older neighbours
who have taken on the dimensions of human form.

When red silk finally is worn, eyes and fingers bestow
the attention so avidly craved, and younger dresses

learn that newness and fashion are irrelevant, long before they're worn.
"I love that retro dress! Is it new?"..."Yes," I reply, "it is."

MISSING LINK

My best friend from school
became a top model

which was fantastic for her but left me feeling
somewhat lacking. I knew I wasn't

particularly feminine, but neither was I lesbian.
Uncomfortable in dresses and mystified by girl-talk,

I did nevertheless date guys
and write them erotic, suggestive poems -

while living in terror of actual intimacy:
that one of them would someday believe me "normal"

and venture beyond painted face and padded bra
to discover the odd little boyish creature beneath,

then divulge my guilty secret to all and sundry,
humiliating me to the core...



A mother now and far from ideal wife,
for innate awkwardness still generates

a pronounced reticence that must be off-putting.
I live off-balance, making excuses

to avoid wifely duties: cleaning, sewing, cooking, I abhor;
preferring instead motor sports, sword fighting and archery -

and  I'm more adept at these than most men I know!
No one seems to know what to make of me.

I am definitely not your archetypal female.
I am Aries woman: gender's missing link.

CREME DE MENTHE

Fourteenth Boxing Day at Auntie Blanche's.
The appetising aroma of roasting turkey
pervading every room of her three-storey house.
The entire family gathered, drinking cocktails.
Auntie's face flushed red, absurd and clown-like
in contrast to her pale blonde hair.
Being the only juvenile present, I felt left out
of their increasingly loud jocularity.
Becoming resentful, I opened my mouth to protest.
But she, ever the empath, turned to me,
took my hand and led me to the scullery.
Aah...that mysterious place
where her special glass-fronted cabinet
stood in it's alcove.
How it's contents had always
fascinated me:
a myriad of miniature bottles with exotic labels
that contained liquids in every colour imaginable.
Always strictly out of bounds to me-of course,
but that only made me covet them all the more.
Then, as if on impulse,
she quickly took a key from a drawer
and unlocked the double doors,
opening them wide.
"Choose one," she said, "Go on!"
I scrutinised her face intently
thinking it some kind of cruel joke.
But she smiled encouragingly and repeated,
"Go on!"
It took me a full twenty minutes
to make my selection -
there were so many to choose from.
I eventually decided on the Creme de Menthe
and how my hand shook as I reached
into that hitherto strictly forbidden place
to take it out.
And the taste, as I sipped from a sculptured liqueur glass
was utterly exquisite - all I had ever imagined, and much, much more.

Then, that evening the first blood came.
Nothing was ever the same after that remarkable day...
It felt like I'd finally come-of-age.

FUSION

I studied his image
all evening,
every gesture,
each facial expression.

By bed time I believed
I knew him intimately:
had demystified his idiosyncrasies,
decoded his DNA.

Later, in dreams, I began
probing his psyche
for unconscious desires
akin to my own.

Then time stood still
and neither of us knew
if we were inside
or outside of the dreams - even
if they were dreams at all -
or some fantastical fusion
of Tantric destinies:
a touching of Souls
in rapturous unity
that I couldn't even begin
to find the words to express...
until now.

WOLVES NOBLESSE

When are you going to see?
When will you understand?
Doesn't mean you own me
just 'cos I held your hand.

Won't be just another photo
in a playboy's book of fame:
mere pawn to inspire a moment of envy
in some pathetic one-upmanship game.

So goodbye, I've had enough now
of high class predatory wolves.
Can no longer stand being kept in the closet
with your tweeds and worsted wools.

I'm going back to my home now,
where rustic roots run deep.
Oh I've finally realised where my future lies -
far away from some cosseted creep.

Well what will you do without me?
Just find another gullible fool
and turn her head with charm and champagne
until she really believes you're cool!

But maybe someday you'll comprehend
that even mongrels like us still feel,
and we don't exist solely to provide a diversion
until you marry your social ideal.

ACORN FALL

In a garden, I'm sitting
on the wall beside the fish pond.
A giant oak tree towers high
above me, heavily laden.
An occasional acorn plops
into the water, displacing the algae,
and huge Koi faces appear in the gaps,
intrigued by these unfamiliar disturbances.

Pillow cases and duvet covers
are hanging on a washing line nearby.
All those stories they could tell:
of bodies sleeping, restless, or making love
within crisp cotton. Intimate secrets
none but the genuine psychometrist will ever learn.

My gaze returns to the pond. The fish
have retreated, leaving dark empty spaces.
Sun dips behind pavilion roof,
bathing the garden in shadows
and pre-autumnal coolness.

Then a barrage of acorns
shatters the remaining patches of algae.
Pond population dives for the safety of the depths
as the final glow of daylight
traces their paths in rippling silver...
momentarily highlighting the faces of the Gods.


Hi Guys, 
I am taking a short break now. I will miss you and will catch up with you all again soon.
Meanwhile...have a brilliant week!:))
xoxoxo

DAHLIAS

Within the dahlias a vision of him
beguiles my senses:
a beloved image flitting from flower to flower
like a butterfly on a summer's day
that I so long to follow.

There are petals on his shoulders
and lodged in his braces.
His eyes scrutinise cottage windows
anxiously seeking my mother's younger face,
and his countenance crushes my heart.

No one can stop him waiting here,
although he is so tired of waiting.
He longs to take her again in his arms,
to escape the bitter loneliness of limbo.
Yet he remains as always.
Always in this eternal moment,
in his army uniform,
all the years between forgotten.

The garden is in full bloom as it was then,
just after the war.
But new people tend it now.
A profound love of dahlias
               has brought us all here
                                 to this surreal intersection,
where all I can do is observe
four strangers having a barbecue...
and share my father's anguish.

CITY LIGHTS

Remember how we used to believe in dreams?
Now we haven't even the time it seems
to stroll along that Cornish shore
where we pledged we'd be lovers for evermore.

Oh when did we stop seeing the moon and stars,
and begin to bicker like children of Mars?

I can still recall how we used to love -
anywhere, any time, was the time for love.
We never held back, just gave our all.
I remember how I held you oh so tight...
and our hungry kisses all through the night.
Such passion then held us in thrall.

Well look at us now, this old married pair:
think we have it all sussed in our gilt-edged lair.
But is this all our lives have been leading to?
This familiarity that swallowed our dreams
has bred an indifference too.

Oh whatever happened to those reckless nights
when we dared to love beneath city lights?

PARANOID

Once I had a best friend
I trusted with my life.
How, you're wondering, did it end?
Well now she's my boyfriend's wife.

It's left me increasingly paranoid,
I don't know who to trust.
My faith in others is totally void,
as a broken heart turns to rust.

On a night flight into Heathrow
I'm terrified our plane'll crash land,
or that a terror cell will overthrow
the crew and force our pilot's hand

to take a gun and shoot us all
exactly where we sit,
and in my mind I watch us fall
as one-by-one we're hit.

Oh such relief when we disembark -
then I spy the customs man.
When his sniffer dog begins to bark
it's time for a fast-hatched plan.

For I'm certain he'll plant something on me
to earn himself brownie points.
I wonder what this time it'll be -
a package of ready-rolled joints??

With pounding heart I hurry by,
but it goes without a hitch.
Then I'm convinced I'll surely die
on the back streets of Shoreditch.

For I've heard it said that hereabouts
they'll roll you for a pound,
so if you've any complacent doubts
then just try hanging around!

Phew! I'm finally home and dry...
now I need some chill-out time.
So a local pub I decide to try
where the band plays a decent rhyme.

Well I leave my Bacardi to go to the loo
and when I return to my table
my instinctive mistrust is proved quite true -
honesty's no more than a fable.

My drink's been stolen and there's no one to blame,
it's gone without a trace.
Oh I guess, being female, I'm fair game:
must be written all over my face.

So I decide to leave and while walking home
along a footpath through the woods,
I imagine, when footfalls I hear in the loam,
a gang of murderous hoods.

I begin to run, and the faster I go
the shadows speed up too.
Soon the trees appear to grow
into grotesque monsters who

are clutching at me with bony fingers
as if to tear out my heart.
I'm terror-stricken and the feeling lingers.
It's blowing my mind apart.

Oh these paranoia blues are killing me,
asleep or awake there's no peace.
If only someday I could be free,
I'd pay the Devil's lease.

So tell me please in all honesty:
whose side are you on?
Is your friendship no more than a travesty,
or can you be relied upon?   ;))

THE ANCESTORS

Now, they are dust
blown to the four winds
that toss the boughs of trees
and ripple spiders' webs
in hidden corners.

Their language is obsolete
to we, the deaf,
who can no longer hear
beyond our tablet speakers
nor see beyond our phone screens
to where they dwell in ether.

Yet, they are ever watchful
as they wait to reawaken in us the old ways
through our names' syllables
and in our dreams,
where conscious trivia has no place
and awareness no constraints.
Today, it is only here they can reach us,
through abstract image and metaphor...
and make us whole once more.

APHASIA

Describing spring flowers is easy:
the fragile beauty of the bluebell,
blue as the morning sky,
as it dances to the slightest breeze.

And there are many ways to describe a red rose
with it's heady, intoxicating scent
that lifts our spirits
and makes us think of true love...

But there are no words for the vivid rawness
of the bloodied feathers and mangled flesh
of a once magnificent pheasant
suddenly ground into the cold motorway tarmac.

And how can one describe the piteous sight of his grieving mate
frantically running around in circles and crying out,
while deep inside her a developing eggshell
tenderly enfolds their now fatherless chick?

CAMPING IN SUMMER WINE* COUNTRY

 Up here there are no protective walls,
just open air. It is cold, freezing in fact
and the ground is rocky. Sunrise
has a peculiar effect on the waking senses:
shadows moving across rippling canvas
become Compo, Clegg, Foggy and the rest, creeping
into the tail end of restless dreams.
A sudden gust of wind makes them jump,
as rainwater from last night's storm
cascades noisily down the sides of our tent.
With full consciousness the Summer Wine illusion recedes,
untouchable as tomorrow, leaving
two campers shivering in inefficient sleeping bags.

Soon bacon and eggs are frying, spitting fat,
over a single ring Gaz cooker.
Aah! Such delicious aroma of bygone days.
Tent door open, the sloping field stretches out,
rain-drenched green. Grazing sheep
baa out a catchy melody that makes us want to dance.
We begin to thaw like icicles in the pale sun
that has come to remind us this is high summer.
Where we sit, warmth-animated, harvest men congregate
in their leggy beauty, seeking suitable mates for the coming autumn.



























The moon's day-ghost gradually fades into blue,
and a gigantic bumble bee strays into our tent.
Today, we are going to Holmfirth, in search of Nora Batty's house...



























* For anyone who is unfamiliar with "Last of the Summer Wine"...it was a popular long-running British comedy series about a group of O.A.P.'s reliving their lost youth!

I am taking a short break, so will visit you all again soon. Have a great week! :))

THE DEVIL'S SORCERESS

There's a black hole forming in the sun today.
It's ten degrees colder than yesterday.
There's snow falling in the middle of June
as the Sorceress casts the chaos rune.

Well she's been here before at the dawn of time
chanting, chanting her deadly rhyme.
Today's no more than another turn
in the downward spiral before we burn.

If you don't believe it just look around:
the snow is burying all hallowed ground
and last year's storms that battered our lands
could only be the work of demonic hands.

There's a skeleton trapped in a Somerset cave
and a shoal of dead fish on the ocean wave.
There's a bumble bee trapped in a spider's web,
while a surfer drowns on the wild tide's ebb.

There's a king dethroned and put to death,
as a holy man takes his final breath.
There's a rich man stripped of his worldly goods
and orchids trampled in war-torn woods.

There's a plane brought down by a terrorist's bomb
and we've no idea where the perpetrator's from.
There's a fox dismembered by the baying hounds
alive upon a nobleman's grounds.

There's a blind man mugged by a bunch of kids
and satanic desecration of the pyramids.
There are starving children born to die -
do we really need to question why?

And the Devil's sorceress smiles...

IMPRESSIONS OF BODIAM

Robins and blackbirds sing from the trees
and magpies call from mid-air,
while butterflies ride the gentle breeze
home to their summer lair.

Wild deer come to gaze from here
upon this wondrous sight
of castle walls that yesteryear
were home to a medieval Knight.

Oh how I wish I could cheat time
and quietly slip inside
Bodiam's history most sublime
to watch the jousters ride.

For one would steal my heart I'm sure
and become my lover true,
after he'd achieved the highest score
whilst displaying my colours in lieu.

Then later, after the lavish bonquet
held in his honour that night
we'd ride off into the crimson sunset -
aah, such utter delight!

And when we returned his Lady I'd be:
mistress of all I survey,
and draped in silks this wannabe
would finally have her day...

But alas for fantasies, it's here I'm stuck
in century twenty-first,
where chivalry's defunct along with luck
and there's only unquenchable thirst.


Hi guys...apologies for being absent so long, but so much happening in my life at present that I've been tied up.
This is a difficult time, but I will visit you as often as I possibly can...I promise. :)

THE FAIRY TREE

The Fairy Tree stands sentinel over
this ancient woodland scene
where once both serf and cattle drover
worshiped their Nymph Queen.

But, sadly, today only modern feet
tread this sacred path
and no longer do we pause to greet
this monarch of bluebell swath.

For long ago She became invisible
to all but believer's eyes,
when weary of being an object risible
She assumed this sylvan guise.

MAELSTROM

The e-mail states you've gone away -
bland and cold, explanation free.
I don't know what to think or say.

The student gives the tutor his pay.
They depart for the Alps together to ski.
The e-mail states you've gone away.

The dutiful wife has had her day.
His waning interest she's failed to see.
I don't know what to think or say.

A wedding ring slowly turning to clay,
that spreads from finger to the rest of me.
The e-mail states you've gone away.

My equilibrium has gone astray:
images of betrayal are all I see.
I don't know what to think or say.

The fairy tale died when I read today
between the lines "You're nothing to me!"
The e-mail states you've gone away.
I don't know what to think or say...

LES BIJOUTIERS DU CLAIR DE LUNE

Leaving the Rex cinema, hand-in-hand with Stephen Boyd,
walking home in the pouring rain.

Soaked tee-shirt clinging to every curve,
accentuating bra-less nipples.

Panda eyes sliding southwards,
gradually darkening pale pouting lips:

a sensual mingling of grease paints.
                          Later, I am Brigitte Bardot
singing in the bath,

a world-wide phenomenon
in her lily scented steam spotlight,

and someone else is reaching through the haze
of imagination's infinity, someone intimately known:

Ursula, my cinematic alter-ego
plugged into the undertone of lust

where all-absorbing obsession is the norm.
Suddenly alive: Lambert in my bed

in the dark. Oh such passion! There,
on the outer limits of experience, dying

for the sadist, the cold-blooded murderer.
Ursula and Lambert...that night Heaven fell.


I am currently staying in the heart of the New Forest. Connection is rather poor, but I will try my hardest to visit you all...:)

THE MACHINIST'S MONOLOGUE

The room is silent, only these thoughts
inhabit it's unpeopled stillness.
The machines are turned off, the long day done. Now
finally, blissfully, I can relax.
There is actually time
to listen to the clock ticking;
to study the nude model on the calendar,
her blonde hair so pale in comparison to the blue sea.
A distant islet rises out of the horizon
and as I gaze at that distant mound -
so faint, so misty, in it's ethereal splendour -
I will myself there in the midst of that solitude
where there is no clocking-in machine,
no constant BANG BANG BANG assaulting my ear drums
day-in and day-out, while my yearnings flow
a million miles from this concrete prison
with it's electric and steel torture implements.
Five-thirty on a Friday evening is all I live for.
It brings such eagerly awaited blissful reprieve
from a life sentence of dull monotony.

Often, it seems a supercilious mindset is mine
for I crave so much more from life
than do my co-workers, most of whom appear content
to slog without question under blinding strip lights,
while cheerfully discussing next year's
eagerly anticipated holiday in the sun
that they've been saving for all year.
Such enthusiasm stuns my mind into vacancy,
makes me despise even more
this artificial environment that sums up my existence:
the sight of coveralls and eye protectors, the constant din
of cutters slicing through sheet metal - all combine
to subdue my spirit into aching despair.
Being so cut-off from tree and field, from Nature's open spaces,
reminds me how unattainable my own dreams are:
these most private of deeply-felt hopes and aspirations
that keep me going, that I feel unable to share with anyone.
Yet, as if to taunt me, they intensify daily
into a virtual reality that I can no longer live without.
But alas, these glowing images are nought but vain fantasy!
They simply fade away and I find myself back in this dismal place.

Oh how I long to lock these doors and walk away
from the future I see beckoning more ominously each day -
a lifetime of wrestling with cold steel, followed only by retirement and then death.
But what if I should attempt to break the mould
of family tradition and follow my dream?
What then?
Would the machinist turned latter-day Hippie
regret his farewell to society and descend
into isolation-induced madness?
The choice appears a simple one:
stay and stagnate, or find the courage to embrace the unknown.

This was never the role I envisaged for myself
when a younger me used to sing
of freedom of spirit and escape from convention,
while strumming on his brother's guitar
with nimble fingers and an innocent heart
that had no notion of toil or reality checks.
In those days, they were just songs - pleasing melodies
accompanied by beautiful words
that planted within me the seeds of idealism.

And those seeds have been growing ever since,
transforming into a kind of crazy hope
that there could be a better life out there
if I only knew how and where to look for it.
And how long I've mentally searched!

But, today, I seem to have lost my singing voice
and my quest has gone cold and died,
along with the last rays of youthful hope.

There is no wild distress. It has been
more a gradual surrender to inevitability:
a succumbing to the hopelessness and subservience
of a severely limited self-image...

OBITUARY

In memoriam,   Christopher Lee


Last week I dreamt of death's dark void
in a nightmare scene of wooded mountains
and Gothic castles on moonless, starless midnights.
In trepidation I traversed narrow passes over bottomless ravines
that seemed to mean so profoundly much.

And on waking prepared to face the division
of myth and man and mourn the latter,
whose commanding presence conjures up
vivid images of black coaches, shrieking bats and baying wolves
that without him would surely revert to mere folklore.

Next day your face was full of farewells.
Then as the Veil parted and you stepped through,
oh how I longed to follow - a more than willing victim,
bare-necked and spread-eagled beneath the full moon
with not a Crucifix in sight. But you never came.

Will the great Hammer now become meaningless logo:
a quaint hieroglyph of antiquated long-forgotten legend?
But before it fades to nothingness,
please, please teach me the language of the Vampires, that I might
occasionally call you back and so dispel dejection's heavy shroud...

Peripheral vision registers something blackest black
and cloaked lurking in the room's darkest alcove.
"I've come to say goodbye" the wind outside murmurs.
Oh my shape-shifting friend, what are you really?
Whether man, actor, or diabolic fiend I am no longer sure.

And will mere tomb contain such a creature
who has ventured so far into the abyss:
whose very name evokes images of blood,
sharp fangs and literal hell on earth?
Perhaps the Angels, too, are confused (you were incredibly convincing)

so will keep you at bay, suspended for all eternity
between Otherworld and Earth in some ghastly half-life
where Dracula presides over his archetypal realm:
where your origins and my future converge
in cold stone and ornately carved letters

that never were, yet ever shall remain
in memory's poignant domain - and in my Soul.
Oh what an obituary! It hurts my eyes to read
such misunderstanding. Your passing makes me say
something entirely different:

I shall not mourn, I shall not weep
nor bid you "rest in peace".
Oh Master of Horror, I shall not miss you -
why on earth would I, 
when you and I both know
an Undead cannot die...

INTO THE FIRE

The candle flame dances in a sudden breeze:
a crazy tango, frantic, urgent.
Her heart joins in - leaping, spiralling,
while she lies there frozen rigid,
crucified by guilt.

She hears his footfalls on the stair,
wants to run, to escape the inevitable.
Yet there on the bed she remains, transfixed, unable to fight it.
Oh she knows how wrong this is,
but her body so desperately craves his.

As he's framed in the doorway, the candle flame
grows to encompass the sun
and her eyes, her lungs,
are burned to cinders.
Dear God, what can she do?

The room turns golden. She's somewhere else
in ecstasy. Separation of mind and body
somehow makes acceptable what happens here
once a week, every week.
This is what she lives for.

Oh she knows what he is - all those other women.
But it's OK, because she's only an observer.
When she leaves this hotel room,
tonight's liaison will never have happened
because she was on a girl's night out, miles from here.

And tomorrow he'll make love to his wife,
while she'll be with her husband,
assuring him she would never even look at another man.
Two strangers will again be living separate lives...
but deep inside her the fire rages on.

DUALITY

Inspired by the movie, "Mary Reilly"...


I am duality,
                      am in continual conflict
between light me
                      and shadow me.
My life-force is stretched
                      to breaking point
between light me
                      and shadow me.


Everything is vague,
                      everyone fears me in shadow form.
I represent their worst nightmare.
This me is undeniably handsome, yet beneath
lurks something hideous.
Each night my teeth and nails draw blood.
My instincts are vile, loathsome.
You'll find me irresistible - at least superficially:
Venus trap to a fly, chicken to a fox.
Bright moonlight over skyscrapers cast it,
my habitat of deep shadow
where I prowl in fiendish delight.
In this blackout you'll not know what hit you -
and they'll be little left to tell...


But in light form
                      I'm quiet and studious.
This man's without vices -
                      at least harmful ones.
His heart longs only to love,
                      his hands to gently caress.
Lips crave yours without ulterior motive,
softly whispering,
                      "Be my love, free me from this infernal curse!"
And you'll never, ever, suspect
there exists this other me.
You'll see only your ideal lover
who daily brings you flowers
and fulfils your every desire:
elevating humble housemaid to grand lady status,
while strolling beside softly murmuring brook
where you'll see a future beckoning in rosy pink hue...
but then inside I'll feel him rising,
growing angrier by the moment
at such mawkish softness.


And when the sun sets
                      and the shadows deepen,
he'll toss me aside -
                      being so much stronger than I -
and will force me to watch
                      as he tears you limb from limb.
Oh why did I ever even contemplate
                      experimenting with that infernal concoction?


Perhaps it is the tear in my Soul
                      that has left me with a taste for oblivion...

SHATTERED DREAMS?

That day, a week ago,
what terrible fears did our silence conceal
as we left the hospital and crossed the car park?
I reached out to take your hand, but whether
to offer comfort or seek it I cannot truthfully say.

You'd just been rendered defenceless as a baby.
I longed to hold you then as never before
but, embarrassed and numb inside,
I said and did nothing.
All around us life went on as usual,
totally oblivious to our personal tragedy.

Oh surely, while a heart still beats, there must be hope.
There has to be. Mine was aching. Was our story to end
after only thirty-eight years? Must it end soon - no more to tell?
There is no answer in the chaos of a shattered dream.
Oh what shall I do? I screamed inwardly.
But no one seemed to hear.

I hardly remember the long drive home,
being focused on how to tell our only son
that the sun may soon be setting early.
Gut-wrenching guilt: it should have been me,
as punishment for being the less-than-perfect wife.
On auto-pilot, I demolished the daily chores.
It was only later, alone in the shower, that the dam finally burst.

That evening, we watched a movie together.
It was a sad one, full of ominous subliminals
that served only to increase my sense of impending doom.
I looked at you and stark reality hit me.
Oh God! Will this chair, like my arms, soon be empty?
How can I face a future without you?

But life has no compassion for the selfish.
Over the years I'd developed a child-like dependency,
an assumption that you'd be there for me forever.
Oh how I'd taken you for granted!
Now my foolish complacency had imploded.
Heartless wench! You'll need to grow up fast now
if you're to take the family reins...

STOP! Self-recriminations are futile.
Better to just let the feelings flow -
no one can hide from their own fears,
nor from the harsher lessons of life.


Today, I can still see the consultant's eyes,
hard, from trying too hard to remain aloof from others' sorrow.
Oh yes, I'll remember that face for the rest of my days,
along with the sobering words he uttered without emotion...
as if your beloved heart was merely a clapped-out machine
that they may, or may not, have the ability to fix.

As I sit here in the garden now,
in the bright spring sunshine,
all I can feel is your possible death sentence
hanging heavily in the air...



I am taking a break from blogging for a week or so.
I will truly miss you all, and will be back as soon as I can.

Have a great weekend. xxx

THE CHERRY TREE

My earliest memory lingers:
my parents' cherry tree.
Reclining in my push-chair
and gazing up at the crazy patterns of sky:
bright blue patches
between lush green leaves.
Cool shade on hot summer days.
Rich red fruits, like crimson marbles
that I desperately wanted to grasp
but hadn't yet the co-ordination.

Later, playing with friends:
Cowgirls and Indian Squaws,
beneath the huge canopy of that tree
whose shadow now embraced
over half of our lawn.
By then we could reach those rich red delights -
at least those on the lower branches,
so gorged ourselves to our hearts' content...
or until we made ourselves sick -
which we did. Frequently.

I recall my father high up on his ladder,
cherry picker even higher.
Then mother baking cherry pies,
cherry crumble, jam and tarts;
and still having ample fruits to pack
into cardboard punnets to sell
at the end of our drive on Saturday mornings
for a few pence each -
my summer pocket money.

Waking on school holiday mornings
was utterly enchanting,
thanks to that beautiful tree
whose highest branches on stormy days
tapped against my bedroom window panes:
a secret code language between best friends
of different species.
It provided the ideal playground for birds too -
from the minute wren to huge black crow,
they all seemed to adore it as much as I did.
And I loved nothing more
than to fall asleep on windy nights
to the rustling of it's leaves,
knowing I was totally safe
with this giant Guardian just outside.

Then, tragically, it became too huge.
The entire lawn and half of a rose garden
had grown gloomy beneath it's shade.
My mother was cross - she had lost
her favourite sunbathing spot.
So, that spring, my father cut it down.
In it's place, lay a pile of severed limbs -
it hurt as if they were mine -
and it's snow white blossoms filled the air,
rising on the breeze and swirling around me
as if it's noble Spirit had come to say goodbye
before rising to the Other world beyond.
And no one but me seemed to care.
I was completely broken.

Nothing was ever the same after that fateful day.
Bare blue skies of the summers that followed
seemed somehow much duller, joyless and barren,
whilst birdsong took on a decidedly mournful air.
And nights devoid of comforting leaf-murmur
became reminiscent of a lead-sealed tomb.
Even our lawn in sympathy shrivelled
to barren lifeless stalks,
as did my painfully sun burned skin...
without our beloved tree.

THE DEAD

At the crematorium ashes revert to ashes. Lacking
all sensation now: they can no longer laugh, cry,
nor hold or caress those they've left behind;
but have, world-wrecked, seemingly entered oblivion.


Not so their thoughts, though, for these still
permeate the airways, influencing the living
on subtle levels that we fail to perceive
from within our dismal cocoons of grief.

Yet...if only we could train ourselves to see
beyond the pain, the sorrow of our loss
and realise they haven't left us - not in truth.
Their forms are simply lighter now, too fine for human eyes.
And they sit not at God's right hand, nor the Devil's left;
but continue, just as before, to love and live with us...



So sorry I haven't been able to visit anyone this week, but as most of you know, I travel a lot throughout the spring and summer...and have been in a signal dead spot...:/

SOLILOQUY

By the golden light of new-born day
and the cool of evening's promise;
by the visions that take my breath away
in all-absorbing bliss;
by the beauty lavishly bestowed
upon the one my eyes behold;
by all the days I've longed to hold...
I'm trapped in would-be lover's mode.

By all of woman's hopes and fears
and the greatest of poets' rhymes;
by each experience of laughter or tears
and every sign of the times;
by all those love letters written in lieu
of being there by your side;
by all the emotions I have to hide...
I know I've fallen for you.

Yet fear of rejection renders me mute -
oh how can I bare my heart
in an out-and-out relentless pursuit
that could drive us further apart?
If only words no longer mattered
and you could read my thoughts today...
but then I'd be terrified you'd send me away
with dreams all painfully shattered.

DOOMSDAY

Fanatical minds fall apart by the hour:

on planning atrocities they're focusing their power

to bring to the world it's darkest hour.

Craters are blown in field and street

that obliterate cars and acres of wheat

'til just staying alive becomes major feat.

Skyscrapers fall like decks of cards,

leaving heaps of rubble and metal shards

that bury row upon row of back yards.

Oh when will this terrorism ever end,

this breaking of Commandments that cannot bend:

this bringing of innocent lives to an end?

So the Gods intervene bringing lightening down

in vengeance upon the perpetrators' town

until everything in sight is glowing red-brown.

Then instead of twelve the clock strikes thirteen,

trapping these warped Souls between

their barbaric acts and this nightmare scene.

Now upon their knees the misguided ask,

"What have we done to incur such wrath?"

and "To earn a reprieve, we'll complete any task!"

Well in booming voices the Gods reply,

"It's too late for that, now you all must die

for basing your lives upon the lie

that yours is the only opinion that matters,

while reducing the lives of others to tatters

and contaminating your Souls with their blood spatters.

So for all those you've maimed or killed in our Name

each one of you shall suffer the same,

but without your coveted martyrdom's fame.

Instead you'll be despised then rapidly forgotten,

your remains lying naked in the gutter until forgotten -

a dire warning to all who crave glory ill-gotten."

TOUCHING THE MIRAGE

For Ryan Gage...

You enticed me into a fantasy,
well your smile it had me hooked
and the pixels projecting you seemed to say:
Come find me beyond the H.D.!
But I had no idea then who you were -
until the final credits rolled.

Well now the mirage has a name
it's fuelled some kind of obsession.
Yes you've stepped from the screen
and into my head -
though still insubstantial as air,
yet the stranger is taking over.

Don't they say that wishing hard enough
can make a dream come true?
Well last night as we danced, black curls
softly caressed my face
and dark brown eyes sent my pulse
racing into outer space.

A picture of you in period costume
standing with your head held high.
Oh God! What have you done to me?
But how can this be you?
I've seen him in a history book.
It's Louis the thirteenth of France!

So where are you -
then or now?
And where does that leave me?
Teetering on the edge of reality
between delusion and heightened cognition.

Oh what the heck...

Will you dance with me, your Majesty?
You see, that twenty-first century man,
your alter ego is out of reach.
So it might as well be you! ;)

SANDWOOD BAY

It seems a lifetime ago that we camped at remote Sandwood Bay.
Thick drizzle was falling when we arrived,
seriously swelling that portion of the sea just south of Cape Wrath.
Although it was mid-June, we wore heavy rainproof coats and hats.
We were freezing cold and were beginning to wish we hadn't ventured
this far north, to such a barren wilderness.
Our biggest mistake had been to imagine this place crowded
and bathed in bright sunshine like on the postcards,
and to picture ourselves spending idyllic days
swimming in the North Sea and sunbathing on warm sand.

And oh what luxurious accommodation! Ruined Sandwood Cottage,
with it's cold stone walls and ill-fitting windows
that let in continual icy draughts that howled and wailed
like a pack of half-starved banshees on the rampage.
Sleeping, I wrote in my red leather-bound diary, is a total impossibility!
But it wasn't only the wind. There was that other thing too.
What we'd encountered earlier had made us doubt
our sanity. We were seriously scared.
So we huddled together in a corner in our sleeping bags,
gulping the brandy we'd pilfered from our respective parents' cocktail cabinets
and praying for the swift arrival of daybreak.

The rain couldn't quite penetrate to the ground floor
were we were, but the damp clammy air certainly did.
It settled in our lungs, making us cough like life-long smokers.
Ha...I remember how you played it up, rolling around
on the time-worn earthen floor and pretending to suffocate,
and how you accidentally kicked the gaz fire over in the process-
only just averting a major catastrophe!
Oh how I laughed, but I knew how nervous you really were.
Being a few years older than me, you always seemed to feel
you had to take control of the situation - to be the strong one.
But I knew that what we'd experienced earlier had seriously unnerved even you.

So what really happened to we teenage friends that summer,
on that first holiday without our parents
that we'd pleaded so hard to get?
We'd packed everything we considered we would need
and rented a beaten-up old red mini. You drove,
I read aloud, feet up on the dashboard, from Tess of the D'Urbervilles.
It took us twenty-four hours, with breaks, to get there.
Then the road just ended and we had to continue on foot for the last few miles,
carrying only the few essentials we could manage.
When we finally arrived, footsore and weary,
the Bay was eerily deserted. Like a graveyard.
The only sounds were the surf crashing onto the shore and the cries of gulls.
We began collecting driftwood, intending to light a fire.
Then we noticed the mast of an old wreck protruding from the deep sand.
We were intrigued. We walked over to it and began to explore.

I can still picture us there now in my mind's eye:
terror stricken - when a mariner in old fashioned uniform
shouted at us, telling us that the wood was his and to leave it alone.
What time-slip had we fallen through? We dropped the wood
and bolted for the relative safety of the cottage. And to this day,
neither of us has ever dared mention to anyone the fact
that the old captain had left no footprints in the soft sand...

LEGACY

We seek the teeth that made the wounds...


Once, I believed I was ordinary:
hid in my father's vegetable garden,
eating peas from the pod.
The caterpillars spoke to me then,
and when I was scared I took refuge in fairyland.

But then I realised she didn't loved me,
and he was too preoccupied.
Suddenly I was too old for fairy tales:
the peas became maggot-ridden
and the caterpillars were struck dumb.

Soon, the days expanded into months
and then the months to years. All the while
it was a harsh tongue that shaped me.
Mother, your castigation has kept me small:
only this body has grown.

The maternal instinct was absent in you,
at least when it came to me.
My mind won't close to that much pain.
Time continually rewinds to the reluctant womb
that formed me in bitter resentment.

I've tried so hard to rise above it.

Yet I remain the unwanted pregnancy -
that abhorrent thing that was such an encumbrance,
the scapegoat for all your frustrations.
Oh how I longed for a cuddle when I scraped my knee,
or your presence on school sports day.

But I guess it just wasn't to be.
Something within me must have stirred such powerful aversion -
perhaps a karmic debt was being repaid.
Did I wrong you in a previous life?
Could that explain such profound dislike of your youngest child?

Oh I wish I knew the answer,
but I probably never will.

Anyway, dear Mother, I forgave you long ago...
but I still have no name.


My heart-felt thanks, Margie...for helping me to recognise a karmic lesson...xxx



I am off on my travels again tomorrow. I will try my hardest to visit you all, but sometimes I find myself in a connection black spot...so if I can't make it for a short while, I hope you'll forgive me...xoxoxo

ON THE SUMMIT OF DINAS EMRYS

From here, sheep are white dots. The bracing air
is damp with mountain mist (or Dragon's breath)
and the distant closes in.
A crow caws from it's lofty perch
in a nearby buck thorn, and others respond.
Then the flock of huge blue/black birds take off
to collectively descend on something dead.

Gorse and owl-hollowed oaks slant over
the remains of Vortigern's Tower, that dominates the summit;

while the silver river below snakes gracefully
into the lake, slightly distorting it's upside-down world.
Can you see the eyes of Emrys in the water?
For it's here His vocation in boyhood began
with revelations of warring Dragons within this sacred hill.

This place is reminiscent of the best of Constable.
Snakes and lizards rustle through lush green ferns,
feasting on unsuspecting insects;
while thistles and briers claw through my sleeve,
drawing blood; and a grey squirrel
darts across the path ahead, startling me.
And here is the legendary Hawthorne.

It is said, that if you sit and watch patiently at dusk,
you'll be rewarded with the spectacle
of Emrys emerging from His tree.
So I sit quietly in Druidic robe, carved staff in hand...
and wait...and watch...and wait...
Listen - there is a rustling! My heart begins pounding.
Then an owl swoops down...and I hear a dormouse scream.

DISTANT FRIENDS

A barren field, unsown, awaiting
shortening night, lengthening day.
Every breath is within me awaking
anticipation, wishing winter away.

I'll smile and wave as I pass by,
recording forever this fleeting instant,
as it passes between my camera and I
and is shared by every worm and ant

traversing with me this land today
in rural Sussex - so far apart
from distant friends, to whom I say:
you're in my thoughts...and in my heart!

THE PROMISE

I'll come when you're in deep despair,
in the darkest dead of night;
when innermost terrors leave their lair
to fill a weary mind laid bare
with torment and abject fright.

I'll come when emotions overwhelm,
when they wear your heart away.
I'll quickly come and take the helm
and steer your mind to higher realm
where positive thoughts hold sway.

So listen! Fast approaches the hour
when from despair you long to flee:
now are there not creeping over you
strange sensations that comfort you -
forerunners of some alien power...
harbingers of me?

ANALYSIS OF A PORTRAIT

The Honourable Mrs. Graham, by Thomas Gainsborough.


Mrs. Graham, I often find myself wondering
how you came to be posing beside this stone pillar
with its enigmatic cameo, under the weight
of heavy gathering storm clouds that frown
upon the stately garden below
with its ancient evergreen trees and golden trailing ivy

that reaches for you like a would-be lover.
It seems that someone is forcing you
to choose between that love-struck beau
and the husband I assume you are gazing at: clearly,
for you, no novel choice - for you appear bored,
irritated even. So what secret are you hiding, fair lady:

how many have been driven insane by those dark eyes
and luminous skin so white?
They'll have duelled to the death to win you, I'm sure,
and will have offered you many a country seat
or even a palace or two. Yet there you stand,
stubborn, in your lavish carmine and silver gown:

a grandiose "belle of the ball" in momentary respite
from the tedious fending off of endless suitors...
So, please Thomas, tell me who commissioned you
to paint this society beauty - a proud husband?
Yet I see no wedding ring, so is she widowed?
Aah...now it begins to make sense...

Perhaps it is sadness that I mistook for boredom
in those huge dark eyes, and the husband
I believed you gazed at is no more than a fading memory.
On closer inspection you do seem far away, as if
trapped in a sad dream, with the dark clouds of grief
gathering around you, obliterating all traces of joy.

And the ivy could be reaching out to offer comfort
to a lonely widow. So Thomas Gainsborough
must have been recording your sorrow in that gloomy hour
that comes just before dawn, when everything in the garden
is disguised by graded shades of twilight
and your glorious luminosity is the only bright thing.

So, Honourable Mrs. Graham, is it a happier future you are hoping for
as Thomas paints you in your carmine and silver gown
beneath those gathering storm clouds
in that grand stately garden
beside the stone pillar
that boasts an enigmatic cameo?

EXECUTION

Chainsaw
whose sickening screech masks the cries
of trees in agony,
it's echoes transcending
the vast suburban landscape.

Their sap
flows like globules of blood,
like amber crystal balls
striving to form pictures
that show us how it feels

when cold steel slices
through living tissue,
is chewed by metal teeth
to expose wood rings
that tell of long lives

cut short without compassion
to make way for yet another highway.
What felony did any of these poor unfortunates commit
that they should be condemned without trial
to such a barbaric mass execution?

GIRL ON A WALL

An old wall stands
lichen covered and overgrown
with couch grass and ivy,

it's antiquity apparent
from the crumbling fragility
of stonework and lintel.

Where it meets the wooden fence
it forms a boundary between eras:
ancient Cowdray House and modern road

to the rear of which lies
inviting parkland dotted with oaks
and unmown grass beneath -

but access to it's cool shade
is denied to general public
by ornate wrought iron railings.

In this tranquil scene she sits
in maroon jeans and black sweater,
this seventeen-year-old on the wall,

gazing shyly into the camera lens.
What is her story? What does her future hold?
Does she really want to know?

Or perhaps she already senses the approaching tempest,
so is clinging to that fleeting carefree stage of her life
with all her heart and Soul.

I am inextricably bonded to this strange little creature.
I long to know what she's thinking...but,
sadly, I can no longer recall.

BIRTH OF A MEDIUM

I wonder when you'll finally realize you've been chosen by Spirit?
Still, now, you appear to be the person I first met,
yet something has undeniably changed.
There is an air of expectancy about you.
I keep feeling my vocation is that of midwife,
that my sole purpose at this stage in my life
is to ease the passage of your re-birth, your transition into my world.
But you are not quite ready yet.
The strain of a protracted labour
is clearly visible in the gauntness of your features
and the dark circles beneath your eyes.

It is admirable how you've managed to cope:
the endless mood swings, the voices in your head -
misdiagnosed as schizophrenia - that make you
appear saintly one minute and then diabolic the next.
Which will you eventually become?
I sometimes fear the latter, when you are in the grip
of one of your self-harming frenzies:
"I AM WEAK, USELESS, PATHETIC, HATEFUL!" you scream,
as you bang your head repeatedly on the garden wall in frustration
until both it and the concrete path below
are splattered with blood.
Then you crawl, exhausted, into bed and sleep for days.

I'm often afraid you'll never recover from these assaults,
that your brain may have been gravely damaged
in those carnal vs spiritual battles for supremacy
over your Soul. Yet the Dolorous Blow
you inflict upon yourself seems to expiate
all perceived unworthiness.
You appear suddenly happy, immersing yourself
in everyday chores as if nothing has happened.
At those times, it is as if you've awoken
from a nightmare that you have no recollection of.
You hum an uplifting tune, smile at everyone
and throw lavish parties for the entire street.

But I know how it frightens you...
how what is trying to come through frightens you.
It's just too inconceivable for you to contemplate
and yet you want it with your entire being.
All your past lives have been preparing you for this.
And so the midwife patiently awaits
the dilation of the Veil's cervix,
eyes fixed on your aura, hands scanning chakras, ears
listening intently for those messages
that will soon inevitably come through.

I attempt to assuage your fears
by guiding your brain into deep meditation
until you achieve heightened awareness,
in preparation for the Spirit Guide
who is gradually descending into your sphere...
Now sudden blinding whiteness
floods through the barriers of the physical realm,
significantly raising your vibration.
Even I am thrown off balance,
am totally engulfed in pure Celestial Light.
The Spiritual waters have broken at last.

In this whiteout of merged dimensions -
me transfixed in it's power - I glimpse
your past lives, all of them simultaneously
as if watching a thousand movies at once.
But I am no casual observer. No such luck.
I feel them all...and none of them
have been happy-go-lucky fairy tales.
You have suffered for your calling -
really suffered - the excruciating torment
of the perpetual mourner, have lost
loved ones...over and over and over again.
And all those lost voices have been calling you until,
finally, the pain has become too much.
That last bereavement, in this lifetime,
has hit you hardest of all.
The loss of your first-born child is the ultimate catalyst...

I bring you out of your trance and you remember
it all, the never-ending rawness of it.
A haunting cry rises up from the depths of a Spirit
torn apart by grief. There is an irresistible longing
to override the finality of physical death.
I begin to wonder if it will ever end - it is
like a stylus caught in the groove
of an old scratched vinyl...
then your Spirit Guide slips in through the sound
to reunite you with all those you have lost.
Your muscles visibly relax. The tension drains
from your face...is replaced by an expression of sheer bliss.
In awe, I watch as the Veil's birth canal gradually expands
into a broad Rainbow Path. And I smile.
My work is done for now.
A medium is born.

EMISSARY

Northern hemisphere winter:
stasis in ice
and feather-patterned windows.

Parched
alabaster skin, cracked,
numb, circulation impeded.

Nature's abandonment -
how forsaken we are!
Blue fingertips and nose. Concrete walls

disintegrating: sand regressed
to molecular rock
from warmer times I cannot reach

when sun rose high,
had warmth
and short shadows.

Lungfuls of air were painless then,
just invigorating.
Something stirs

within Earth's core -
an excitement, anticipation.
Inexplicable.

And so I
dig deep, find Creation's impulse.
Evolution's call

is in the blood
and I
am the emissary:

the tiny green shoot
that splits the rock-hard soil
to speak

of life eternal.

MOVING ON

I tore them up, being weary
of the hold those old
letters had over my emotions
every time I sat at my writing bureau.
What was that power they possessed?
Word-by-word they perpetuated
vain hopes of dreams unfulfilled
that incarcerated me in a place of torment.
I never was aloof.
I habitually gave my all: love, heart, body and Soul;
but you tired of the emotional drain of reciprocation.
Your passion paled to indifference.
So my life became defined by red bicycles
and the smudged black ink of postmarks.

The flames inside were consuming me:
touching what you'd once touched,
my fingers could imagine something else -
something warm and living.
Aah, such exquisite torture!
And that last one ever written,
still stark black on yellowing paper: Love's death warrant.
Well at least it will be safe territory now, the bureau.
At least I'll no longer be lured there daily
to be caught up in an endless loop
of grim masochism,
of clinging to a rainbow's end
while slowly drowning in the murky depths
of a long-abandoned wishing well.

So I gather up the shreds and hold them over the bin.
They are more precious than a handful of diamonds,
have long been the only lifeline
to what once was - and blindness
has been my captor, just as dumb delusion
has bred a foolish complacency.
I brought it on myself.
My foot is on the pedal now.
The lid rises and my fingers release their grip.
I watch the strips fall and come to rest
between the baked bean cans and chocolate wrappers:
futureless in refuse land,
futureless as a condemned man on death row.
And now your name is there too: shredded, discarded,

like the hopes and dreams we once shared,
so forlorn
on its nest of dross, abandoned -
yet still able to twist my guts!
Cold rain pounds the window, heightening melancholy.
My blood rages through me like fire.
Tigers are ripping the antelope of my heart to pieces.
This is how it feels - the inner tearing
of a Soul from it's mate. And the bleeding doesn't stop
with acceptance
and it's dead expression, but goes on
hurting, hurting:
paper strips telling the odours in the bin, the trash, the putrid moisture
what moving on is. It is nothing but a lie.

LADY OF THE LAKE

Restlessly I'm searching high and low -
oh why does Dozmary* draw me so?
Please, I beg you, Lady of the Lake
won't you tell me the reason for sanity's sake?
For I'm certain these things I should know.

So at pool's edge I wait straining my ears
throughout the night, overcoming fears.
I open my mind
but only to find
there's a brick wall inside.
Oh Merlyn of Camelot
is it really my lot
to thwart my own destiny tonight?

It appears not, for through Arthur's memory I'm shown
the Battle of Camlan that stole His throne.
And since then the wasteland has been upon us,
endlessly oozing spiritual pus.
Oh please Lady, finish the story tonight...

Well the visions come to me at dawn in a flash
of blood, gore and sword's clash.
Then Arthur's body being transported away
across the water to Avalon's bay,
where the Ninefold Sisterhood began healing his wounds.
And there in Otherworldly time He'll remain
until England's dire need calls Him home again.


* Dozmary Pool, Bodmin Moor, Cornwall, England.

HYACINTHS

The hyacinths are over-optimistic - we are in the dead of winter.
Outside everything is white, still, frost-bound.
I am chilled to the bone, huddled here beneath my duvet,
while the cold morning light streaks the walls with pale blue.
I am diminished, have lost connection to the outside world.
My vitality languishes with my clothes in the wardrobe
and clear reasoning is lost to confusion.

My head is burning and throbbing on the pillow
like some grotesquely distorted Christmas light: flashing, flashing, feverish red.
Ridiculous brain, why do you insist on trying to function?
People keep bringing me water to drink.
They are out of focus, blurred and featureless,
constantly plumping my pillow and mumbling gibberish.
Oh I wish they would go away and leave me alone!

I am as an infant to them. They attend to my physical needs
like new mothers: fussing and constantly checking
that I am still alive. It is driving me crazy.
I just want to sleep and escape this pain and discomfort
that invading microbes have mercilessly inflicted.
Inside me a battle rages, mirroring the state of my outer life.
All the discord and disarray is finally taking it's toll.

I am a sail-less yacht adrift upon an uncharted ocean,
stubbornly clinging to a name and address back on land.
Being so infectious has robbed me of lover and friend.
Afraid and alone in a suddenly unrecognised room,
I desperately seek something familiar for reassurance.
But there is nothing, just bare walls and bland furnishings.
I have become a non-entity: a stranger's absurd dream.

But now I have these flowers. I never believed
I could be anything but emotionally barren.
Yet how euphoric I feel. You cannot imagine -
the empathy is so overwhelming it stuns you.
And they ask nothing in return, except a little earth and water.
I imagine this must be what it's like to die:
a joyous flowing back into pure Universal Love.

The hyacinths are so pink and full of life, it hurts.
Even through the gift wrap I could hear them breathing
gently, as I still can now they are fully exposed
and at the mercy of all. They have become my lost babies.
Their pinkness calls to my heart in a language
not quite understood. It responds fluently:
I would willingly die to protect such heart-rending fragility.

I was merely tolerated before. Now I am truly cared for.
The hyacinths lean towards me, and the window beyond
where each day the light floods in then fades back to darkness.
And I am a lifeless thing, caught between
the brilliance of the sun and the perfection of the hyacinths:
such an ugly thing that I want to efface myself.
Both sun and hyacinths are so beautiful in comparison.

Before they came I was coping with the influenza,
slipping in and out of consciousness without much fuss.
Then the hyacinths filled the room with their intoxicating scent.
Now the air and I are drawn to them like moths to a flame:
the air and I bewitched and enthralled.
They have captivated my attention, that before was content
to simply drift between trivia, reverie and oblivion.

Even the walls seem to be warming to pink.
The hyacinths should be reclassified as Spiritual Gurus.
They are opening up, transforming into passageways to paradise
and I am aware of being inexorably pulled in,
while sheer healing energy flows through and around my ravaged body.
The water the humans feed me once flowed through those sacred stems,
and I already feel my fever lifting...

ORACLE

Every morning you pounce on the newspaper
and thumb through it to the horoscope section - that oracle
of your aspirations, your life map, where the planets
whisper in their prophetic language of symbolism
like a Shaman's feverish mutterings. How you fear
the very thought of ignoring their promptings -
of incurring harsh retribution
should you fail to correctly interpret them.
It seems these printed prognoses have taken control.

Yet you have no need to fret so
in trying to calculate the ascendant degrees
of Saturn in Aries and it's implications for you personally. It is
no more than the Sun's gravitational pull
on fragments of rock. But you are in denial.
Saturn implies death - or at least some equally unpleasant personal disaster.
And so you vow to stay indoors, at least for the coming week.

If only you could re-frame astrology
as no more than an ingenious metaphor
plucked out of past experiences and close observation,
or out of cloud formations, or Moon phases, or tides.
Is it not a plausible possibility
that your grandparents, parents, siblings and I
just might be the true shapers of your destiny?